


11:11

by brittlelimbs



Series: Reylux Drabbles [5]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Morning After, darkside!rey, hux is a smug bastard, ren is hungover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 18:28:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6387781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittlelimbs/pseuds/brittlelimbs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ficlet based on the anonymous prompt: “lazy reylux sleeping in after a long night of passionate sex? ;)”</p><p>In which copious amounts of Corellian wine and two (or is it three?) hot bodies make for a dangerous combo. A very hungover Kylo Ren assesses the damage after the night's festivities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	11:11

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from rufus wainwright's song by the same title

Kylo Ren, over years of training, has acquired the habit of waking up all at once. It’s a useful thing, being able to go from dead asleep to wide awake, fingers twitching, in the span of a hot second. Rising from unconsciousness the same way one drops a dark, heavy cloak from their shoulders, immediately able to assess if there is there a danger to fight, a summons to answer. The instinct to wake up, snap-quick and graceful, hardwired into him after day in and day in and day out of brutally carving his body into _this_. Into himself.

This is nothing like that.

There is nothing graceful about the way he wakes up this morning. It’s a multi-step process, and it begins, first and foremost, with the terrible pulse of an absolutely splitting headache, screaming into the dark and quiet space behind his eyelids. Ren’s head is _pounding_. He squirms in discomfort, unwilling, quite yet, to open his eyes, and discovers a chafing, uncomfortable stickiness on his belly, in the warm space between his legs. He’s also incredibly sore, as if he just did a full course of PT, Force exercises, and a five mile run afterwards, just for the hell of it. The bed is soft, at least, softer than he’s used to— _Hux_. Hux’s bed.

That explains the headache (partially). And the stickiness.

Well. As much as he would loathe to open his eyes and risk further aggravating this fucking awful, angry rathtar of a headache, he’s now obliged.  
The first thing he sees, hazy through the narrowness of sleep-encrusted eyes, is a shoulder. The shoulder surprisingly small, smooth and tan and attached to—oh. _Not Hux_.

He’s in Hux’s bed with Rey, apparently, and oh _stars_. His apprentice is curled tightly into his side, very clearly still asleep, hair spilled out across the pillows as her flank rises and falls gently with each breath. She’d be gorgeous, if she wasn’t drooling on Ren’s bicep, and he catches himself tracing the slim, neat arc of her nose with his eyes, the sweet openness of her sleeping brow, and—he looks away from her face, suddenly mortified. Fuck.

He’s in bed with his apprentice, and there’s a pale, silver-ringed hand resting gently on her hip; he follows it, up, up, and then the second thing Ren sees on this awful, star-forsaken morning is Hux. He looks so well composed, the bastard, propped up against the headboard on Rey’s other side, a steaming cup of caf wrapped in one hand, and the soft, digital glow of a datapad in his lap. His hair has clearly been disheveled, no longer in that anal, slicked-down hairstyle that irks Ren to no end, but pushed back, instead. He’s got fat, blue-bruised hickeys on his neck (on his pec— _is that a bite?_ ), and, Ren grudgingly admits, he looks good. Very, very aggravatingly good. His free hand is gently, proprietarily rubbing over Rey’s hipbone, and fuck, Ren’s gut can’t help but twist at the sight; that little thing, that tiny gesture, is the hottest thing he’s seen in months, if he’s honest with himself.

Then he looks beyond Hux, and third thing Ren sees are the two very, very empty bottles of exorbitantly expensive Corellian wine sitting on the bedside table. He groans; he and wine have been empirically proven to be a terrible combination. His head throbs harder, as if to emphasize this point.  
“Good morning,” Hux says. He doesn’t look up from his datapad. Ren just groans again, rolling onto his back and passing a tongue over his gritty teeth. He props a forearm over his eyes (his wrist has bruises around it, _don’t think about it_ ), and tries to understand what’s going on.

“What… Happened,” he finally ventures, seeing as Hux is being unforthcoming with any further information.

“I wanted to celebrate Illodia,” Hux says. “You were available, and expressed some interest in joining me, if you remember. You came over, and we had a bottle. Simple stuff, Ren. And Rey– well, I’m not entirely sure, myself,” he sighs. “But I will say, it was your idea.”

“ _My idea??_ ” Ren’s arms fly to his sides, and he looks over Rey’s head, seeking Hux’s gaze. _In what universe–_

“Oh, hush,” says Hux. “Stop being so dramatic. You had fun.”

Rey rolls over then, cutting off Ren’s assertion that he is not being dramatic, _thank you_. She smacks her lips, back arching into a lithe, full-body stretch that stops Ren cold, makes his mouth impossibly dryer.  
“ _Kriff_ ,” he pants: there, crusted on her belly and between her spreading thighs, is an _obscene_ amount of spent seed. Enough that Ren knows neither he nor Hux could produce it on their own in one go; there are three, maybe four loads, coating her belly with a tacky sheen, glimmering in dried-down rivulets on the insides of her thighs.  
Rey has been exceedingly well fucked, and if lassitude in all the lines of her slow, sleepy body is any indicator, she’s very happy about it. Her eyes squeeze shut, before opening wide, finding Ren’s instantly. He’s frozen in the goldeness of them. Can’t move.  
“Hello,” she says, yawing, further insinuating herself into Hux’s outstretched arm.

“Hello,” he says back, dumbly. Why isn’t she screaming. What is happening.

What a morning; Kylo Ren has only been awake for five minutes, and he’s already managed to feel ferociously hungover, find himself guilty of bedding his own pupil, and now Hux is smirking at him like he just handily conquered the nearest populated star system. What did he do to deserve this, of all things? Was it the wine? It was probably the wine.

Then Rey’s hooking a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him close for a kiss, and all coherent thought goes skittering away.

Later, squeezed between these two flush-hot, familiar bodies, Ren admits it: some mornings, it’s just not worth getting out of bed.

**Author's Note:**

> come shoot me a headcanon/talk to me about these three crazies anytime over on tumblr at floatin-on-bespin.tumblr.com!
> 
> comments always very welcome!


End file.
